


Our Bones Will Cry Victory

by thebeehive



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Androids, Bickering, Capture, Crash Landing, Fighting, Guns, Injury, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Objectification, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Torture, nausea due to garbage, sexy dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeehive/pseuds/thebeehive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…</p><p> </p><p>Stiles, former member of the First Order and current member of the Resistance, finally wakes up after a medically induced coma; he sustained severe injuries fighting the Dread Doctors, creatures that wear permanent masks and are loyal to the dark side. </p><p>While Lydia is off discovering the ways of the force and how to control her banshee powers, training under the mysterious Deaton, Stiles realizes he too wants to discover his origins. He convinces top Resistance pilot Derek to come with him as he attempts to find and travel to his home planet in search of Stiles’ father. They take Derek’s personal ship, the Camaro, and are accompanied by android SCTT-8, or Scott. Stiles has no name or city to go on, only the name of a planet, Beacon, and the memory that his father always wore a gold star.</p><p>The Dread Doctors, now smaller in numbers, have regrouped in hiding to lick their wounds and plan their next insidious attack, under the leadership of the Emperor, or the Beast of Gevaudan. The galaxy is a vast and dangerous place for two men on a seemingly futile quest…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Searching for Beacon

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I watched Star Wars-The Force Awakens, and then the new season of Teen Wolf began.
> 
> This work is finished, just final edits needed. I will be updating every day or every other day, so it will be completely up within a week or so. 
> 
> Title is from Charles Bukowski.

Stiles found that he enjoyed interrogations as long as he was a witness to them, and not a participant. It came in handy that Derek was naturally intimidating.

“Have you heard of a planet called Beacon, or not? Answer the question.” Derek growled as he loomed over the small, crab-like creature. 

“Tsssk, click, click…..hrrrnnnnn,” the crab clicked and grunted back, waving around long blue pincers in front of his face. Derek glared - probably more for good measure than anything else, Stiles reasoned - then turned his head towards the squat android patiently stationed between him and Stiles.

“Beep bo beep!” the android, SCTT-8, or Scott, as Stiles and then, more reluctantly, Derek, had taken to calling him, translated. Derek nodded, satisfied.

“Was that so hard?” Derek said to the crustacean, turning around and leading the group away from the table in the corner and back to the central bar of the dimly lit cantina. 

Well, Stiles and Derek walked, Scott rolled his lower body along the sticky floor, while his head turned side to side, large dark vision ports taking in the seedy surroundings of the cantina. They had landed on the planet of Navaros, a Resistance controlled planet used almost exclusively as a weigh station for cargo and travelers due to its location. The transient nature of the well-traveled, yet temporary inhabitants, meant that shady dealings took place with alarming regularity; however, the planet was a beehive for information of all kinds if one knew where to look. And Derek always knew the best places to look. 

“You didn’t even have to touch him and he caved,” Stiles said excitedly, waving his arms around. Derek leaned to the side, avoiding being struck by a wayward arm or hand. He barely reacted to Stiles’ flailing anymore.

“What did he say, what did he say?”

Stiles had a newly formed habit of putting people he barely knew on pedestals – Lydia, for instance; the strawberry blonde girl , currently on her own quest to train under the mysterious emissary Deaton, who looked deceivingly fragile but contained more inner resolve and determination than anyone he had met. But he really did admire the broody Resistance pilot next to him. Derek had a reputation as being somewhat sullen and not the most approachable guy; but, despite that, he was always helpful when he was truly needed, always there in a pinch, and treated most creatures with a surprising amount of respect for someone who had killed as many people as he had. From the way he talked to Scott –an android – to the way he dealt with an interrogation, Stiles was coming to realize Derek was much more bark than bite. His looks didn’t hurt either. 

And he had let Stiles keep his jacket. A beautiful, custom leather jacket. It still smelled faintly of Derek. Underneath the sharp aroma of leather and engine oil, Stiles could smell a faint woodsy scent, like pine and the moss that grew in the shadows under great trees, a scent he privately thought of as Derek’s personal smell. The jacket fit across his shoulders, and was only slightly oversized in the arms and chest area. He felt honored that someone like Derek, a great fighter pilot, whose parents were war heroes as well, would give someone like him, a nobody, and a nobody former member of the Order at that, his prized jacket. 

Stiles didn’t have much experience with real life heroes, but he looked up to Derek in many ways.

“Stiles, I wasn’t going to hurt him, I just needed information from him,” Derek said with a small frown, his thick eyebrows drawing inwards. “He said he’s never heard of a planet called Beacon, but there is a planet at the entrance of the uncharted territories called Beacon Hills. We should head there tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I want to leave now, we shouldn’t waste any more time! If Beacon Hills is really Beacon, then my father will be on that planet."

“We’ve been traveling, with no break, for a couple weeks now. Let’s sleep on the ground for once, and not in the ship, and we can start fresh tomorrow.” 

“But who knows what will happen the more time it will take us to get there,” Stiles protested.

“Stiles, I want to get there in one piece. We are staying the night,” Derek said, in a tone that ended further discussion on the matter.

Stiles grumbled in acquiescence. The last couple weeks of trying to track down the planet Beacon, and find his father, had been exhausting. All he remembered from when he was taken from his family by the Order, at the age of five, was the name Beacon, and the memory that his father, a faceless blur, always wore a gold star on his clothes. Information was hard to gather, and this had been their first real lead. It would be nice to sleep on a planet in a real bed for a change, and not just on the Camaro, Derek’s trusted but cramped ship.

“Besides, it’s been ages since I’ve had more than one drink.”

“What’s the point of having more than one drink?” Stiles wondered. “I had a drink when we were with Lydia, and it was nice and all, but I don’t see the point.” 

Derek flashed a quick, feral-looking smile. The bartender, a towering blue blob with pink tentacles and whiskers popping out of every pore, grunted at them to order drinks.

“Two Scruffy Nerf-herders, and a tin of android oil please,” Derek ordered. Stiles watched in fascination as the many tentacles sprang into action: two scooped ice while two other tentacles strained a viscous looking purple liquid so thick it had the consistency of sludge, while another tentacle grabbed a tip off the counter, and yet another tentacle poured out a small tin of oil, presumably for Scott.

The galaxy was a very large place, and while, intellectually, Stiles knew this, having spent his whole life in the very stifling, dark world of the First Order, he had missed out on many things. Drinking. He had missed out on drinking. And sex. Sex. He knew all about kissing and groping and sex, he just hadn’t experienced any for himself. The First Order kept a strict lid on behavior like that of any kind. But, as the Order had kept a large group of teenage boys and girls in close quarters for years as they trained to become soldiers, talking and sharing misinformation ran rampant, even if, curiously, no one acted on this information. 

Stiles had missed out. He had missed out on friends and family and games and all sorts of things that other people in the galaxy seemed to take for granted. The Order discouraged any kind of individual thinking, or of having any type of interior life. Stiles had always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was different. He had a hard time focusing on the drills and lessons the other soldiers were taught, but when something caught his interest, he would want to learn more about it to the exclusion of everything else, including sleep. He had never felt like he had fit in, and his propensity for obsessive research and learning was highly discouraged, to the point where he had learned to hack into the Order’s database if he wanted to follow further inquiries down the twisted paths his mind tended towards.

But family. Missing out on family. Family was such an abstract concept for Stiles to grasp, that it felt more like gust of wind, or a tickling in his hair; it was something he knew he had missed out on, and he should be devastated, but all that was left was a small amount of wistfulness. The fact that he had a father, at one time anyway, further strengthened his resolve to find him. Stiles was many things, but his most secret fear that he kept tightly locked away was that he was destined to become like the First Order - no matter how much he fought against it. Having a family, a family that loved him and he would love back, was one more step away from the empty white shell he had been so close to becoming.

And while killing people had never been a problem for him, killing innocent people had been much harder to swallow. As Derek said, now that Stiles was no longer drinking the Kool-Aid, it was time to live a little. Stiles didn’t ask what Kool-Aid was, but he thought he knew the gist of what Derek was saying.

This was not his first time having a drink, but this was his first time having a Scruffy Nerf-herder. As the bartender put the drink down, Stiles examined it gingerly. It was dark purple, and smoke was coming off the top. 

“Cheers,” Derek said, picking up his glass and holding it up, steam floating in front of his features, blurring and softening his sharp cheekbones and harsh eyebrows. Scott opened up a small front panel on his body, reached out a silver extend-o arm, and gripped his small tin of oil. Stiles was confused for a moment, then grabbed his glass as well.

“This is an old custom, on my planet, but I think it’s even older than that. Let’s make a toast. To a peaceful journey, and finding Stiles’ father.”

“Beeeep,” Scott chirped.

“To finding my father,” Stiles echoed, and they clinked glasses, before he took a deep breath and steeled himself to choke down the purple drink.

 

The next morning, Stiles woke up slowly, in parts. First his brain, then his limbs, then his very, very dry mouth. His eyes were last and the most reluctant. They felt even drier than his mouth, if that was possible, and the morning light burned his retinas in a special kind of torture.

He turned over in the small bed. The room was tiny, just large enough for two single occupancy beds and a small table. Scott was in the corner, powered down in sleep mode, his round body still, and his lights turned off. Stiles remembered an academic article he read, after hacking into the private digital library, while still in military training school with the Order: Do robots dream of electric sheep? It was during a phase where he was fascinated with android autonomy, and researched anything he could find with the limited resources of the Order at his disposal.

He wondered what Scott dreamed of. Was it all a string of numbers, like a binary code, or did a series of images play out; perhaps scenes from his day that were saved in his server? Was it silent, just darkness all around? The thought made Stiles feel sad. Derek had recently taught him the word melancholy, a word he found to be beautiful. He tried it out; the thought of Scott being unable to dream made him feel melancholy, he decided.

In the bed a foot away from his, Derek was still asleep. He looked younger and more peaceful in sleep, as many creatures did, but his mouth was slightly parted, and he gently snored. Why did Derek come with him on this mission? Stiles knew that he had several months of downtime until his next mission for the Resistance, if not longer, but he had earned the rest. Derek and Stiles had shared the experience of escaping and fighting the First Order, and crash landing, but that was all. Derek had jumped at the chance to accompany Stiles, saying that he had the time, and Stiles needed a good pilot to help him find Beacon. Stiles looked at him a moment longer, than shook his head. The mystery of Derek was for another day. Right now he needed water, and something for his headache. 

 

Later that morning, back on the ship and in the air, Derek turned to look at Stiles in the co-pilot seat. “How you feeling? Do you remember anything?”

“Groggy. And tired. And my head is pounding harder than a… I don’t even know. I remember having a couple drinks and then nothing. Blackness till I woke up. Is drinking always like that? Why do people enjoy is so much? It seems more like a form of punishment?”

“You had four Nerf-herders and you were gone. You’re a lightweight, Stiles, you’ve never really drank before. We’ll build up your tolerance. And the key is to get buzzed, not blackout drunk, that’s when you really enjoy it.”

“How do you feel?”

“I’ve had years to build up,” Derek smiled grimly.

“Well, I don’t know about drinking, but I can’t wait to build up my tolerance to all the galaxy has to offer. And,” Stiles said, feeling suddenly brave, “I’m glad I have a friend to experience it with.”

At that remark, Derek flashed him a genuine smile, a small one, not like the feral one last night at the bar. “The galaxy is something else. I hope you’re ready.” His smile dropped off, and the pensive look he usually wore returned to his face. Derek cleared his throat. “Now, check on Scott and grab some protein meals, I’m going to chart our course to Beacon Hills.”

“Aye, Captain,” Stiles said with a mock salute, smiling as Derek rolled his eyes. He stood up from the co-pilot chair and walked through the narrow door of the cockpit into the rest of the Camero. The ship was very modest, and different from any other Stiles had spent time on.  
The Camero was designed to be a small ship, hopping from one planet to another, not for long treks across the galaxy. However, Derek and his favorite mechanic, the intimidatingly stoic Boyd, had retro-outfitted the ship with engine boosters and the strongest defense shield possible, along with long range guns. The Camero was all black, which always made it stand out in the docks amongst rows of ships in varying shades of silver and gray. The ship was square in shape, with one long hallway that created a perfect looping square inside (his first time in the ship Stiles had chased Scott as he rolled around the hallway, laughing until he saw Derek’s disapproving face; he suddenly felt very young, and stopped running), with a small deck on top. The deck swiveled all the way around (much like Scott’s head, Stiles chuckled to himself) where a single shooter could squeeze into a small seat. The rotating shooting gallery on top afforded a 360 degree view of incoming enemies, although Stiles hadn’t had a chance to test it out. Yet. Who knows what waited for them in the outer corners of the charted territories?

Even the inside of The Cameo was dark, the walls and seats and gears almost black, while the lights along the sideboards and cockpit were a dark crimson, like angry red eyes in the dark, Stiles thought. Derek kept it polished and cleaned, which made Scott look like an odd ghost, albeit a very roly-poly one, as he rolled down the tiny hallways, his white round body mirrored in the shiny walls and floor, making him appear to almost float. 

“Scott,” Stiles said, almost running into the android as he rounded one of four corners in the ship. We’re going to chart a course to Beacon, or Beacon Hills, and then jump to hyper-drive, so lock yourself down in a minute, ok?”

“Beep bo,” Scott said, which Stiles hoped to be an agreement; he was still learning to translate the various chirps and beeps, yet somehow, even without direct communication, he had instantly liked Scott, and felt a rapport with the android. It was the same way he had felt an instant connection with Derek and Lydia. Stiles didn’t really know these people – he hadn’t grown up with them the way he had his fellow Order soldiers – but nevertheless, he felt closer with them in the short time he knew them then he ever did with any of soldiers he had known for most of his life.

Stiles grabbed some protein bars from the storage locker, and returned to the cockpit, sitting back down. He watched Derek consult the star maps for a couple minutes. Finally, Derek looked up, his face a carefully blank mask.

“What is it?” Stiles hadn’t known Derek for very long, but he had already figured out this was his face before he took on a serious endeavor, or was about to deliver bad news.

Derek paused for a moment. He sighed.

“Ok, our course is charted to Beacon Hills. The planet is in a system, on the edge of the uncharted territories, that has been controlled by the First Order for some time now.”

“Does that mean my father has sworn allegiance to them? Or that they have murdered anyone who supports the Resistance? Or did they just murder all citizens?” Stiles felt his stomach clench as his heart rate increased, and his breathing sped up but became shallow; he breathed faster and faster, but kept taking in less air. The thought that his family had been touched by the very thing that had destroyed countless people and planets, not to mention almost destroyed his own future, was too much to bear.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Derek looked at Stiles sternly and gently grabbed his wrist, stilling his nervous tapping against the console. “Stiles, look at me. Stiles, breathe, you have to breathe!”

Stiles gasped, trying not to panic even further, which was almost impossible in his currently panicked state. He locked eyes with Derek, seeing for the first time, even thru the haze of his panic, how his eyes weren’t the hazel he had originally thought, but were instead like a constellation; swirls of green and blue and gold all mixed together to form a living thing. Stiles tried to breathe, and listened to Derek, who had begun to count. 

“Stiles. Count with me. Breathe in, breath out. One. Breathe in, breath out, two.” Derek continued, counting as Stiles gradually slowed his breathing. He didn’t touch Stiles anywhere but his right wrist, and he was careful to not crowd or lean in towards him, instead giving him plenty of space. 

Stiles was finally able to breathe at a normal rate. He felt as though a weight had been lifted, yet was still imprinted, on his chest, and he felt completely drained. “Thanks,” he said weakly. “That’s never happened before.”

“You had a panic attack,” Derek said, looking at him, brows more furrowed than usual. “They say that the First Order medicates its soldiers so that they don’t-"

“Don’t what?”

“Feel. Don’t feel things strongly. They want to regulate fluctuations in feelings. So they dose you guys to keep you on an even keel…” he trailed off, turning over Stiles pale wrist, still held by his fingers. On the underside, right above the pulse, are two small circular scars. “Your bracelet,” Derek said, not a question. 

“Oh, my wristband? When we escaped off the Star Destroyer, the first thing I did was rip it out. I didn’t want them tracking me, or us,” Stiles said, gently turning his wrist from side to side in Derek’s grip, still feeling the ghost of the thick black band that punctured into his wrist. He’d worn a band for as long as he could remember. He looked at Derek’s fingers on his wrist, a dark tan compared to his pale skin. The hair on the back of his hands was dark. Stiles had a sudden urge to touch it.

“I don’t think that wristband was just a tracking device.”

“It wasn’t?” Stiles looked up from where he was staring at where he and Derek were connected. Derek was looking at him in that intense way he had, where Stiles felt like he was being cross-examined, where if Derek stared hard enough he could see into Stiles’ soul, and all the secrets he worked hard to hide. Stiles squirmed under the attention. 

“No, I think it was. But I think it was more than that. I think, or, well, the Resistance has suspected for a long time, that wristbands are what keep you medicated and submissive, in order to better to serve the First Order.”

“We did get new bands put on twice a year. But I wanted out before I ever ripped my wristband out,” Stiles said. He remembered watching innocent people being shot, and suppressed a shudder. Even though he was out, the shadow of the Order was never far behind him. 

“Well, you’re made of something different.”

“Are you calling me weird,” Stiles asked, looking at Derek with a sly smile.

“No, I’m calling you special,” Derek said, smiling. “Very special.”

“Ha, that I am big guy. But I’d rather be special than with the Order.”

Derek’s smile dropped, and he looked back at the window, the dark of space laid out around them like a blanket covering their ship, with nothing but small tears to let in dim star light. He didn’t say anything, but he squeezed Stiles wrist once, tightly, before letting go. 

“So are we going to jump into hyper-drive or are we going to take the long way there - ” Stiles started. He was interrupted by a frantic beeping on the console.

“Fuck,” Derek growled. “Incoming, we have TIE fighters approaching.”

“What, how did they know where to find us?” Stiles shouted. “Can they track us somehow? Are the Doctor’s reading our minds now? Can they read our minds across space, is that possible -”

“Beeeeep,” Scott was letting out a continuously louder and more distressed beep over Stiles’ yelling.

“That fucking crab! Or somebody at the cantina,” Derek cursed. “Shut up! Both of you!” he twisted in his seat to include Scott. “Stiles, go to the shooting gallery and start shooting for fuck’s sake! Scott, it’s about to get bumpy, so hold on to something!”

Stiles scrambled out of his seat. “What are you going to do?” he yelled back at Derek as he raced down the dark hallway, red lights blinking eerily at him. 

“I’m a pilot, what do you think? Try to out-maneuver them!”

The best pilot the Resistance has, Stiles thought proudly, although Derek would never - “BEEP” - he almost tripped over Scott. “Hold on to something, Scott!” Stiles wheezed as he ran past Scott, then grabbed onto the ladder and hauled himself up into the small space. He sat down in the single seat, and spun around, taking a look at what was headed their way. He jammed the headset on, and heard Derek’s voice.

“Ok Stiles, get ready. Two TIEs coming in, from starboard - ”

“I see them! I see them!” Stiles started shooting at the weaving fighters, trying to figure out their next move so he could meet them halfway with his guns. He missed all the shots.

The Camero took a sharp turn and started a steep dive.

“What did I tell you Stiles? Stay calm! Take a deep breath and then shoot!”

“My accuracy is fine, Derek, remember the last time I did this – ”

“Beeeep Beep!” Scott’s beeping was a background to the shuddering of the ship. One of the TIEs had gotten a shot. It had probably just glanced off a wing, but the ship’s defense shields were stuttering. The ship started beeping and making warning noises, adding to the panicked noise of Scott’s beeping, and the pounding in Stiles’ head.

“Shut up Scott, I know the ship just got hit,” Derek’s voice came in rough over the headset. “Stiles, focus, and then aim!”

Stiles was trying to hold the now familiar feeling of panic at bay. He took several calming breaths, and closed his eyes for a moment, willing his mind to go blank. He opened his eyes, and focused on the screen in front of him. He pressed a button, and a moment later one of the TIEs exploded mid-air.

“Woo, nice shot kid!”

Stiles beamed at Derek’s praise over the headset, but the euphoric feeling was short lived.

“Oh shit,” Stiles said.

“What?” Derek asked. The headset got quiet, with nothing but a low buzz. Then, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Stiles had looked up from the screen to see, in real time, over 20 TIE fighters surrounding them. The fighters had come from a Star Destroyer, which was now slowly sliding into view from the far side of the Camero.

Stiles’ mouth went dry, and he choked as he tried to swallow.

“What do we do?” he whispered.

“Stay calm,” Derek said, still over the headset. “I’ve been captured before. Just stay calm. And don’t let them break you.”

“Break me? I’m not able to handle torture, Derek. I’m fragile, I’m breakable, I’ll shatter into a million pieces, I’ll –”

“Stiles! You’re a soldier. You’ve been trained for this your whole life.”

“No, I’ve been trained to march in formation, to turn in formation, and to shoot first, ask questions later. Do you know what we are taught if we are captured by the enemy? To kill ourselves, if possible, before we can be questioned! Cowardice is what we are taught, Derek!” Stiles voice was starting to crack under the strain of his mild hysteria. He ripped off his headset and practically fell down the ladder. Derek was waiting at the bottom, and grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Who’s flying this thing?” Stiles said, blinking his eyes rapidly, feeling wetness threatening to spill out. He didn’t know what was going on, but the tight feeling in his chest and throat couldn’t be a precursor to anything good.

“We’re caught in the Destroyer’s tractor beam,” Derek said, more gently than the situation warranted. “They’re pulling us in. We have to hide Scott, ok? If they find him, they will tear him apart.”

“Beep beep beep!” Scott shrilled, rolling towards the ladder.

“Come here,” Derek said, letting go of Stiles and heading around a corner of the hallway. He touched a side of the wall with just his fingertip, and a hidden panel slowly fell open. “This panel is lined with reverse magnets and a cooling fan, so Scott won’t be detected.”

Scott hesitated, head swiveling back and forth to look between Derek and Stiles, while his body nervously rolled back and forth in front of the panel. With a quiet beep, he rolled into the compartment, and Derek shut the door.

“It opens only by my fingerprint. Here, let me program in your fingerprint as well, in case something happens to me and I can’t get back to let Scott out.” He pressed his finger against the wall, this time in a different place, then grabbed the wrist where Stiles’ band had been; the same wrist Derek had held through his panic attack. 

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Stiles said, eyes going wide.

“Stiles, be smart about this. If anything happens to me, you have to get back here and escape with Scott. Come on.” 

Stiles reluctantly held his finger up to the wall, and Derek guided him by his wrist the rest of the way, until his finger was pressed against a smooth surface. The section behind his finger glowed red for a moment, and then Derek pulled him gently away. He gripped Stiles wrist again, this time rubbing his fingers back and forth against the exact area where the band had once been.

Stiles stood there, unsure what to do, watching Derek rub his wrist. Is this how friends acted before they were about to be captured and imminently tortured? Should they hug next, or grip each other by the elbow and look into each other’s eyes? 

“Derek,” Stiles said softly. Derek continued to rub his wrist for a moment, as goosebumps raced up Stiles arm under Derek’s jacket. Suddenly, a loud clanging noise startled them both. Derek jerked up and dropped Stiles’ wrist. The moment, or whatever it had been, was over.

“We’re in the Destroyer now,” Derek said. The Camaro had come to a complete standstill. The two men stood there for a minute, not moving, and then they heard the doors to the ship forced open. The tell-tale marching of many steps could be heard. Stiles had spent the last several months running for his life from them, and now it was time to face the First Order again.

He looked at Derek, standing next to him, shoulders tense, and leaning forward, as if every muscles, his entire body, was aching for a fight. Stiles suddenly felt lighter. “Listen Derek, we escaped from them once, we can do it again – ”

A loud shot rang out, and Stiles crumpled to the ground, his body convulsing involuntarily; he felt like he had touched a 1000 volts of electricity with his bare hands. Spasms wracked through his body, and his head slammed into the ground.

“Stiles!” Derek shouted. It was the last thing he heard before everything went black.


	2. Out of the Garbage and Into the Compactor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished editing this chapter earlier than anticipated, so here you go.

Stiles woke up to consciousness in a small holding cell. Unlike when he had been drinking the previous night, this time he woke up all at once. He tried to sit up, then fell gracelessly back. 

“Fuck,” he winced. His entire body ached and his head pounded incessantly. He tried to listen, and couldn’t hear much beyond the ringing in his ears. Stiles gingerly touched the back of his head.

“Gahhhh,” he whimpered, jerking his hand away. He tried again, as gently as he could. His fingers touched a tender bump stretching about three inches across the back of his head. Every touch to the bump sent jolts of pain shooting across his head and down the back of his neck.

Stiles looked around the small cell. It was a typical Order holding cell: a small mattress was attached to a steel pull out shelf against one wall, and along the opposite wall a small metal toilet was positioned in the corner. Stiles surmised that the locked door led to a hallway, no doubt filled with other cells. The door contained one small slot, big enough to slide a protein meal and a small water container through. The entire room, even the mattress was gray. 

“Derek!” Stiles said out loud, before remembering he was the only occupant of his cell. He was probably being monitored, too.

“Fuck, fuckity fuck,” he mumbled under his breath. It was time to take Derek’s advice and focus on staying calm. Stiles thought of calming thoughts for almost a minute. Then he gave up. Action was more his forte anyway.

Ok, escaping. Stiles wondered where Derek was being held. The first step was finding out where Derek was being kept, the second step was finding out where the Camaro was being held, and then the third step was getting himself and Derek on the Camaro. They could worry about how to fly out of the Star Destroyer when they reached that point. Well, if they reached that point, Stiles thought wryly.

Before Stiles could put his extremely-detailed Excellent Escape Plan into action, the door to the holding cell opened, and a limp Derek was thrown carelessly inside by two troopers. 

“Your turn next,” one of the troopers said ominously, then turned to leave as the cell door slammed shut behind them. Stiles raced over to Derek, who was lying on the floor, motionless.

Stiles knew Derek had been tortured in the past, by not only the First Order, but the Dread Doctors themselves, yet he had lived to see another day. That knowledge, however, did nothing for Stiles when he was faced with the living, barely breathing form of Derek on the ground. Derek was a hero, Derek was supposed to be invincible, Derek wasn’t supposed to be injured, let alone die. He was supposed to be invincible –

“Stiles,” Derek weakly gasped out, eyes blinking open. “Stop.”

“Stop what?” Stiles said frantically.

“Stop holding my hand so tight,” Derek croaked.

“Oh,” Stiles said, looking down where he was gripping Derek’s hand so tight that his own hand had turned white at the knuckles, and his veins, always prominent, stood out even more sharply against his skin. He could almost fear Derek’s bones creaking. He relaxed his grip. “Sorry, I just, I’ve never seen you injured before.”

Derek struggled to sit up. Stiles grabbed him around the shoulders and half guided, half dragged him so Derek could rest against the wall of the cell facing the door. 

“Are you ok?” Derek asked.

Stiles almost laughed at Derek’s concern; who was the one unable to stand and had more recently been unconcious? 

“I’m fine.”

Derek gave him one of his exasperated, patented glares.

“Ok, I’m not fine, I’m in a holding cell, and I’m about to be tortured here soon, and I was shot by a …”

“Electro-blaster,” Derek supplied.

“Shot by an electro-blaster, and I hit my head, which is killing me. But other than that,” and this time Stiles allowed himself a small, bitter laugh. 

“I’m fine. But what about you?”

“I won’t be down long. I’ll heal in a couple minutes.”

“A couple minutes? Derek, you were just, you know.Who knows what they did to you? Electrocuted you? Whipped you? Probed you?”

“Nobody probed me, Stiles. The Doctor’s weren’t the ones trying to get information from me; it was just some lowly, moronic troopers.”

“What did they want to know?”

“The location of the Resistance base.”

“Did you tell them?”

Derek gave him a flat look. He must have been feeling better. “What do you think?”

“Of course not, you would never. However, I think you should get up on that sorry excuse for a bed and take a nice long nap -”

The door opened again, revealing two troopers (the same ones? Two new ones? Stiles could never tell) and one of them barked out, “The Doctors will see you now.” This time one of the troopers stepped into the room and reached for Stiles.

Several things happened at once. Stiles yelped as the trooper roughly grabbed his shoulder. Meanwhile, the trooper that had stood blocking with his gun trained on Derek and Stiles was suddenly on the ground with a loud thump.

“What the –” the trooper holding on to Stiles got out, trying to turn around, before a flash of movement was on him, and then he too was on the ground. 

“Derek,” Stiles got out, before he realized Derek was standing over the second trooper. How was Derek standing? But when Derek looked up, Stiles’ knees buckled and he almost fell down. Derek had transformed: his eyes glowed as red as the lights on his ship, his mouth was hanging open, panting, revealing a large set of gleaming canines, and his entire face had become hard, with ridges of bone sprouting above his brow, and sideburns appearing all along his jaw. Stiles looked at his arms, hanging over the unmoving trooper, to see that his hands now ended in sharp claws. Claws that were dripping with blood. Stiles looked down to see the trooper’s throat – the only vulnerable part of the uniform – slashed. He looked to the door and saw the same treatment of the other trooper. 

“Derek. What.” Stiles stared, rooted to the floor. He tried to move, and couldn’t, other than sinking to his knees. “Derek?”

Derek cracked his neck, and shook his head. His features realigned to their usual handsome normality, if anything in the galaxy could be called normal. He held up his now clawless hands, palms facing Stiles. 

“Stiles, listen to me very carefully. I will not hurt you.”

 

“Derek, I know you, I know you won’t, but what, what are you?” Stiles couldn’t seem to rise from his knees, deciding the floor wasn’t such a bad place after all. 

“I come from a long line of werewolves. Nobody knows, not even anyone in the Resistance. For years, werewolves have been hunted, captured and brainwashed so we could be turned into super-soldiers. We have instant healing abilities, which are surprisingly rare, even in a galaxy as big as this one. My family has kept our identity hidden for a reason.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Well, believe it Stiles,” Derek said, frowning.

“No, I mean, I’ve never heard you say so much in one go. You talk when I draw it out of you, but even then sometimes it’s like pulling teeth.”

“Stiles, focus!”

“I thought…I thought werewolves were a myth? Like the fountain of youth? Or the philosopher’s stone?”

“We try very hard to be a myth. But Stiles, listen to me. The Emperor himself, why do you think he is known as the Beast of Gevaudan? It is rumored that the Emperor –”

Derek broke off his speech, head tilted to the side.

“Are you listening for something? Do you have super hearing –?”

“We have to go, now!” Derek pulled the gun out of the holster of the trooper closest to Stiles. He grabbed Stiles’ arm, hoisting him to his feet, and dragged him out of the cell and into the long hallway. 

“Wait,” Stiles said, reaching down to grab the blaster off the other dead trooper. 

Derek looked down the corridor both ways, before pulling Stiles by the arm and heading left. 

“Ow, Derek I’m good, I can run now. Although, probably not as fast as you. If you have wolf speed, then you are much faster than –”

“Stiles, shut up,” Derek said, letting go of Stiles’ arm, but continuing at a breakneck speed down the next corridor. 

Stiles skidded down the next corridor. Derek ran ahead of him, occasionally turning around and then slowing down so Stiles could catch up. Derek would also tilt his head, or sniff the air, and then grab Stiles’ arm to abruptly turn down a new corridor, or through a different doorway.  
Stiles thought that his poor arm was going to be bruised black and blue. Oh, well, it was a distraction from his head, which continued to shoot throbbing aches down his neck every time his feet pounded on the floor. He started gasping for breath; his recent encounter with an electro-blaster had severely compromised his usual stamina – he had been one of the best long-distance runners, and also sprinters, in his military unit.

“But why did you wolf out and reveal your big secret?” Stiles gasped out as they ran. Stiles didn’t really care about the troopers, he just never realized how ruthlessly efficient Derek could be when the situation warranted. And he couldn’t believe that no one, not even anyone in the Resistance, knew about Derek being a werewolf.

“They were going to take you to the Doctors,” Derek said. 

As if that was a complete answer, Stiles thought. He decided to focus on the life-threatening situation at hand. The long, dark corridors of the Star Destroyer all looked the same, and while he had spent time on then before, he had no idea how Derek was able to evade the troopers; even with his super senses, they should be surrounded by now.

As soon as he thought this, their good luck seemingly ran out. They had careened around another ubiquitous corner, feet pounding, only to come face to face with what looked like a squadron of troopers. They spun around to head back the way they came, only to see more troopers jogging towards them from the opposite direction. Stiles lifted his gun to start blasting, but Derek pushed it down and shook his head. Stiles knew he was right; it was useless to blast when there was an endless supply of troopers that would blast right back at them. 

“Fuck, Derek, what now?” Stiles didn’t want to look like a coward, but his worst fears were about to come true. 

Derek was sniffing the air, nostrils flaring. 

“Is now really the time to stop and smell the roses, Derek?”

Derek ignored him, grabbed his other arm (he’ll now have a set of matching bruises Stiles thought), and pushed Stiles through a hidden panel right next to where he had been sniffing in the hallway. Stiles slid headfirst down a very narrow, completely dark and slippery shoot of some kind. It took a second for his mind to catch up to his body’s helpless sliding. When the smell hit him, he had enough time to think, shit, an oddly appropriate word, before he gulped in a lungful of air. Just in time, as the next second he had shot out of the slide, headfirst into a lake of garbage.

He came up sputtering, trying not vomit, and furiously wiping his mouth. He still clutched his gun in one hand, thank fuck. A moment later, a solid wall of muscle hit him in the back, taking him under the garbage again. Stunned for a moment, Stiles stayed under the muck, until large hands grabbed him under his arms and yanked him up. Sputtering for a second time, he turned around to look into Derek’s face. 

“Could you not have pushed me under?”

“Could you not have moved away from the slide?” Derek had what looked like decaying meat on his head. Stiles reached forward and flicked it off. Then he tried not to gag.

“The smell… What were you thinking coming down here?”

“The smell is worse for me,” Derek snapped. “I was thinking this was a better alternative to getting blasted.”

Stiles looked around the compactor. Piles of garbage lurched out of the liquid trash, as if volcanoes had exploded and spewed up trash instead of lava, over and over, until the piles of garbage had reached precarious heights. Stiles turned all the way around, to focus on Derek again. He started chuckling, he couldn’t help it.

“What is so funny?” Derek growled.

Stiles stopped chuckling, but he grinned. Here was Derek: war hero, best pilot of the Resistance, always yelling at others to stay calm. And here he was, winging it, standing in waste liquid in a trash compactor on a Star Destroyer, wearing a meat hat. 

“Nothing. I just realized you’re only human after all.”

“Werewolf,” Derek said, his growl getting deeper.

“Semantics,” Stiles shrugged. “It’s crazy that I see you as a real person, is all.”

Derek gave him a strange look. Then he rolled his eyes, and started examining the room around him.

“We need to get the fuck out of here,” he said.

Stiles pointed to a panel on the wall that was very, very high up. “Over there. That entrance will lead us to a door that only a couple sanitation workers know about. If we hurry, we can go out that way with hopefully no detection.”

“Your job was sanitation for the Order, right?”

Normally, Stiles appreciated Derek’s surprising listening skills, but he would rather forget that anyone knew that fact about him.

Stiles nodded, tucked the blaster into the empty holster of his belt, and immediately started climbing. He would live in garbage if it meant not surrendering to the Order; a little climbing wouldn’t hurt him.

A couple minutes later, Stiles was almost at the top of the pile, in no small part due to Derek helping him climb. The garbage was slippery; werewolf strength only helped so much when both men kept sliding helplessly back down the slimy pile. Stiles’ nose burned, the putrid smell was so sharp he kept gagging. He had somehow managed to avoid vomiting. Derek hadn’t fared much better, he had been cut on a sharp object, a long laceration across his thigh. He had assured Stiles that he would heal, and infection wouldn’t be a problem, but Stiles had heaved a little when he saw the oozing blood on Derek’s leg. Between the heavy wetness of his clothes sticking to his body, weighing him down, the slimy garbage and mystery objects his bare hands were forced to grip, the heavy, oppressive air, and the unbearable sting of garbage hitting his nose, Stiles was about to scream in frustration.

“Almost there, got it,” Derek said, as he reached an arm up to push open the door. He pulled himself up with his arms, and then turned around to pull Stiles up. For a moment they panted, sitting in what Stiles knew to be a small closet that said maintenance on the door. 

“Ok, how close are we to the Camaro?”

Derek stood up, and cautiously cracked the door, Stiles crowding close behind him. Derek sniffed, and then tilted his head. 

“Ok, down this corridor, and into the cargo bay. We were almost there when we had to go down the compactor. We’re just going to have to make a run for it, and then when we get to the bay, hope that there’s not a lot of troops standing around.”

“That’s the plan?” Stiles said. “Ok, well, it was nice knowing you.”

Derek glared at him, “Do you have a better idea?”

“Well, not at the moment.”

“Ok then.” And with that Derek took off at a sprint down the corridor. Stiles had no choice but to sprint after him, trying to be as light and quiet on his feet as possible. It was hard with the squelching noise his boots made.

“Fucking garbage,” he muttered. When they reached the entrance to the cargo bay, Derek paused, looking around the airy space. He motioned to Stiles, who caught up behind him, and whispered into his ear.

“You go first, and I’ll cover you. If you stay to the right side of the bay, you can use that row of cargo as cover, until the last 30 feet or so, and there’s the Camaro in the corner.”

Stiles looked into the large room, spotting the Camaro at the other end. He looked at the long row of brown storage boxes that would be his cover. Then he looked at the other side of the bay, where troopers were standing guard by ships, and watching other troopers push supplies around.

“No, Derek, you go first and I’ll cover you.”

“I can heal, you can’t. We’re not having this discussion. Now go!”

With a push from Derek, Stiles took off, running at an awkward, bent over angle, trying to stay hidden behind the storage boxes. He thought he heard the fellow squelch of Derek’s boots behind him, but he couldn’t be sure, it might have been the echoing in his head. When he approached the end of the boxes, he pushed himself to start a dead sprint on the last stretch to the ship, and subsequently, freedom. He took off, praying that Derek had him covered. 

Stiles was relieved to see the Camaro’s door had been left open, and he sprinted up the ramp without hesitation. He stumbled when he heard the dreaded noise of a blaster going off; turning around, he saw Derek getting up off the ground, limping as he tried to run towards the ship. He saw Stiles hesitate, and yelled.

“Stiles, start the engines, go! Go!”

Stiles promptly ignored Derek’s instructions, and ran back down the ramp. He aimed his blaster at the troopers running towards them, as they started firing back. He just needed to give Derek enough cover to make it into the ship.

“You idiot, get back in the ship,” Derek roared as he limped-ran towards Stiles, waving his arm at him, while his body was half turned towards the troopers, his other arm raised up with his blaster, firing at anything that moved.

Derek pushed Stiles up the ramp, effectively putting his body between Stiles and the blasts heading their way. Stiles tried to look at Derek’s leg that he was dragging.

“Not now, we have to get out of here!” Derek had turned a furious shade of red, and despite being the one limping, was crowding Stiles towards the cockpit. Stiles gave up, and ran towards the co-pilot seat, shutting the ramp doors first, and then flicking every switch he could reach to get Camaro going. Derek dropped heavily into the seat behind him, and grabbed the controls, pulling upwards as quickly as he could. 

“How are we going to get out of here?”

“Blast through that window,” Derek said grimly, looking towards a small window near the roof of the cargo bay. “The second we do, I’m going to   
make the jump to hyper-drive; our course to Beacon Hills is already plotted. Go let Scott out before we make the jump.”

But Stiles was already out of his seat, flailing down the short hallway; he pressed the pad of his finger against the spot Derek had shown him in what seemed like only several hours ago; he actually had no idea how much time had passed from when they had been captured until now. The panel swung open, and Scott rolled out.

“Beep beep beeeep!” Scott said. The ship moved sharply up, throwing Stiles into the wall. Scott was sent rolling down the hallway, before shooting out an extend-o arm to stop. Stiles had to hurry. 

“Good to see you too, buddy, but we’re not out of the woods yet,” Stiles said as he swung up the ladder. Derek had the ship in the air; Stiles just had to shoot out the window. He took a deep breath, aimed, and got it on the first shot. He didn’t even wait to watch the glass fall, but clambered back down the ladder and raced to buckle himself back into the co-pilot seat.

“Latch on Scott!” Stiles hollered, and a minute later he was thrown back into his seat. Then the ship adjusted, and everything was smooth as the stars rushed by the window. The ship was moving so fast the stars were streaks of phosphorescent light, whooshing silently past the ship. Stiles stared for a moment; he didn’t know if he would ever get used to the cold beauty of the galaxy.

Derek let out a sigh of relief. Stiles turned to him, “Your leg!”

“It’s fine,” Derek said. “It’s already healed. I’m going to take a shower and burn my clothes. When I’m done, I suggest you do the same.” He got up and headed to the back of the ship, where two small bunkbeds and an even smaller shower box were squeezed in. He paused for a moment.

“Thanks for coming back to cover me. Even though you’re an idiot who didn’t have to.”

“Well, Derek, gratitude is a funny thing- ” Stiles stopped as Derek continued walking down the hall. “Your welcome, idiot!” Stiles smiled, in spite himself. Then he looked down.

“Shit,” he said. His jacket. Or, Derek’s former jacket. There was no way he was throwing this out, garbage be damned. 

An hour later, Stiles and Derek were in the cockpit, cleaning off the chairs from when they sat in them still covered in garbage remains. After a long shower, and new clothes, Stiles felt much better. Derek had told him the jacket had been treated, so after a thorough washing and gentle soaping and rinsing in the shower before he cleaned himself, the jacket was hanging up to dry in the back. Stiles felt oddly vulnerable without it. He hadn’t taken it off, except to sleep, since he had woken up in the medical bay back at the Resistance base. 

He turned to look at Derek, his chair cleaned, when he fell back, smashing his side into the console.

The entire ship jerked violently to the side, before shaking and falling out of hyper-drive. Scott beeped furiously from where he was anchored behind the cockpit.

“What the fuck,” Stiles said, “What’s strong enough to pull us out of hyper-drive-“

“Wormhole,” Derek yelled. “A fucking wormhole. Hold on tight!”

The ship was being pulled into the mouth of what looked like a blue cyclone of swirling walls that undulated and spun. The faster the ship fell, the faster the walls moved. Stiles was on the floor, holding the base of the chair as hard as he could, while trying to watch their progress.  
Derek was next to him, anchored to the base of his own chair, face set in a grim line, but his eyes were bright and sharp, watching the walls of the wormhole through the window.

“Hold steady, hold steady,” Stiles repeated. He had never been in a wormhole, but had read enough to know that the more unstable the wormhole, the more likely it was in danger of collapsing. And that would be good for no one. 

Stiles couldn’t watch the blue walls spin by much longer, he was getting dizzy. Suddenly, the wormhole ended; the ship had fallen through the other side, and was starting to tumble end over end.

“Stiles, hold on,” Derek said, one arm braced around the chair, the other reaching for the console, furiously pressing buttons and levers. “The Camaro’s not responding! The wormhole must have messed with the ship’s operating system.”

Stiles strained to look out the window. The ship was now in freefall, spinning around endlessly, and a large mass kept appearing at the end of every rotation.

“Derek, what is that?” Stiles yelped.

Derek looked up. The mass was getting closer. “It’s a planet, we’re going to crash!”

Stiles shut his eyes and gripped the chair tighter. He could hear the Scott's panicked beeps and chirps.The only thing going through his head right now was, oh fuck, not another crash landing. What were the odds? His luck had finally run out, for good this time. He would never find his father, he would never have a chance to have sex, and he would never be able to find out how it felt to be buzzed and not blackout drunk.

A warm body grabbed ahold of him. Derek. He was basically on top of Stiles now, holding them both down against the floor of the cockpit, wedged between the bases of the two chairs. Stiles felt Derek’s warm breath against his neck, and his frantic heartbeat. Or was that his own heartbeat?

“I got you Stiles, I got you. Hang on!” Derek’s words were in his ears as a loud rushing noise filled his head.

Stiles hung on.


	3. Crash Landers

Crash landing never got easier, Stiles decided. The rushing noise was followed by a massive, ship-wide shaking, so fierce his teeth chattered. Derek held him so tight Stiles felt like they had merged into one sentient being of melted bone and sweat. When the shaking finally subsided, Derek didn’t move.

 

“Derek,” Stiles whispered. “I think we’re alive.”

Derek still didn’t move. He didn’t loosen his hold on Stiles, either.

“Derek,” Stiles said in a hushed voice. “I’m going to be squeezed into pulp.”

“Beep bo bo bo!” Scott was leaning forward, extend-o arms shaking Stiles and Derek, his head swiveling to look out the front windows. “Beep bo!”

Derek loosened his grip, much to the relief of Stiles’ lungs and ribs, and looked out the window. Perversely, Stiles missed the feel of Derek’s arms; not the restricting sensation of being squeezed to death, but the arms themselves had been nice. Derek was preternaturally warm; Stiles wondered if this was a werewolf thing, or just a Derek thing. Stiles had rarely been touched his entire life, until he had become embroiled with the Resistance. It was something he was still getting used to. There was no hugging in the Order. But Derek’s arms were muscular and strong and Stiles felt safe. This was an epiphany: Stiles was on a ship that had crash landed, and yet in Derek’s arms he felt safe. Friendship was a wonderful thing, he thought.

“We landed in water. We have to get out of here before the ship sinks or is pulled under,” Derek said darkly, looking out the windows. 

Stiles’ reverie on friendship ended. “Water? Oh, great something new for us.”

“What?” Derek said, rising to his feet. Stiles looked out the front windows. There was water all around them, with a distant shoreline off to the side.

“Last time was sand? I thought you were dead? Have you already forgotten? Because I haven’t. ”

“Haven’t forgotten,” Derek said, distracted. He walked out of the cockpit and headed down the hallway.

“Is our entire relationship going to be built on crash landing on desolate planets, Derek? Because that doesn’t seem healthy!” Stiles said, to no one, as Derek was now out of sight. He sighed, turning his attention Scott.

“Are you ok, Scott?” Stiles looked over the round android, who seemed to have survived the crash unscathed, by no small miracle. 

“Beep,” Scott affirmed. 

“How are we going to get you across water? Can you swim? Are you waterproof? This ship wasn’t built to hold life rafts. ”

“Beeb beep,” Scott moved his head around, and one of his many compartments opened. A small blue rectangle fell out. As Stiles watched, the rectangle started filling with air from Scott’s internal pump, until it had inflated into a sky blue raft. 

“Oh ok, but is there a raft for us?”

“No, there’s not,” Derek said, returning from the back of the ship. He carried two rucksacks, and handed one off to Stiles. “You and I will have to swim across, and pull Scott’s raft.”

“Swimming,” Stiles said faintly.

“Do you know how to swim?” Derek said.

“Yeah, I can swim,” Stiles said not moving. Swimming wasn’t the issue.

“Then what’s the problem?” Derek asked, impatient. “We have to get off this ship now.” The ship, as if on cue, started listing to one side, an ominous creaking noise accompanying the slow tilt.

“I just have a paralyzing fear of drowning,” Stiles confessed, not meeting Derek’s eyes.

“Well, then you better keep swimming,” Derek said.

“Oh, well when you put it that way, simple, no problem. Just keep swimming,” Stiles grumbled, following Derek back down the hallway. Derek led him to the back of the ship, next to where the cramped living quarters were. 

“Besides, we can hold on to the raft. You’re not going to sink, Stiles, I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Very reassuring,” Stiles said, shaking his head. 

“We’re going out the emergency exit, so Scott can stay dry,” Derek said, as he opened a panel, which was concealing an outer door.

“Beep beep,” Scott was dragging his raft behind him. Derek grabbed it from him, pushed open the outer door, and put the raft in the water. The way the ship was leaning, there were several feet of space between the bottom of the emergency exit door and where the water was lapping up against the ship. Scott rolled forward to the edge of the door, and Derek gently grasped his middle, and then lowered him down until he was situated in the raft. The raft bobbed under Scott’s weight, but held steady. 

“Holy shit, how strong are you?” Stiles said, not realizing he had said that out loud, and not just in his head, until the words left his mouth. Scott may be short in stature, but light in weight he was not. 

“Werewolf,” Derek said. “Do you mind Scott? Your raft has just enough room, if that’s alright.” Derek was holding up his rucksack.

“Beep,” Scott chirped. Derek took Stiles’ bag and then put them both in the raft, snug up against Scott. Then he lowered himself out the door and into the water, slowly, until he was treading next to the raft. He gripped the side of the float and looked back at Stiles.

“Is it cold?” Stiles asked, trying to delay the inevitable.

“Not too bad,” Derek said. “Come on, hurry up.”

Stiles carefully lowered himself off the door’s edge and down the side of the ship into the water. He turned and shut the outer door closed. The ship groaned in the water, it was listing pretty far now. The water was slightly cool, but nothing unbearable. Stiles pushed off the side of the ship, and gripped the edge of Scott’s little raft. He could feel his boots, wet and heavy, weighing him down, and he wished they had thought to take off their shoes before they got in the water.

Stiles looked up at the sky. There was one sun, a pale yellow orb that was low in the sky. There were also two moons, visible in the dying light. One was small and dark and distant, it looked like a lifeless rock, floating in the sky; the other moon was large and pale and emitted a strange, silver light. Stiles had never seen a moon so close to a planet before. 

“Stiles, come on, swim.” Derek started kicking his feet and paddling with his arm that wasn’t holding on to the raft; Stiles copied his motions, trying not to think about all the monstrous things that could be at the bottom of the lake. The water was a dark brown, and it was impossible to see any further than the surface. Stiles shivered, and kicked his legs harder. 

Stiles could only imagine how funny their little trio looked if anyone had seen them: two men paddling as hard as they could while Scott perched in his raft, a little round buoy who let out the occasional "Beep." The shore, which hadn’t seemed to far from the ship, now seemed to be miles away. The longer they paddled, the distance covered seemed not nearly as much as Stile’s muscles protested that it was. 

“Can we rest, just for a second?” Stiles asked, out of breath. “Not everyone here has werewolf strength.”

Derek grunted, and they stopped for a moment’s rest. They turned back to look at the ship; the Camaro was now a black triangle sticking out of the water. It looked even lower then when they had pushed off. Stiles wondered what would happen if the ship sank. Would they be able to recover it? He knew how much Derek loved that sleek, dark ship; it was his baby. Derek, as he was prone to do, was keeping his expression blank as he looked at his sinking ship, but Stiles could only imagine the cursed and angry thoughts he was hiding. 

“Will we be able to pull the Camaro out?” Stiles asked.

“I don’t know. Let’s just focus on reaching land first,” Derek said, and with that he started to paddle again. Stiles tried to match his strokes and not look down into the water.

When they finally reached the shore, Derek gave the raft one last push so Scott could roll out on to solid ground. Stiles took a minute to sit on the rocky shore and catch his breath. The last 24 hours had been ridiculous, between escaping the Order, followed by an actual fucking wormhole, then the crash landing, and the long swim to shore, that Stiles felt he had lived several lifetimes in just a day or two. 

The sun was almost fully set now; the sky of the unknown planet was streaked green and gold, and the larger moon was letting out its own white light, lighting up the water. Stiles took a moment to admire the colors playing out on the water – it didn’t look brown on the surface anymore, but shimmered an emerald green, backlit by the super-sized moon.

“What now?” Stiles asked.

“Let’s set up camp for the night. In the morning we’ll find someone who can help with the ship. Or a new ship,” Derek said.

His face looked pale in the twilight, throwing his eyebrows and stubble into stark relief. Stiles realized he was staring at Derek’s face when Derek quirked an eyebrow in question at him. Stiles looked away, while Derek turned to grab the sacks out of the rapidly deflating raft. After a quick shake, Scott tucked the raft back in his compartment, and started rolling carefully across the rocks after Derek, who was headed towards the thick green trees.

Stiles had never seen trees this big – they must have been centuries old – they stretched up towards the night sky, and some of the trunks were so big around a small ship could have flown through the base if it had been hollowed out. The planet of super trees and a super moon, Stiles thought as they walked. They had no problem finding a small clearing to set up camp in. Derek wouldn’t let them light a fire (Scott sadly put away his little lighter that he had eagerly popped out) for safety reasons; he didn’t want to attract anything that might be living in the woods. The super moon was so bright they didn’t need the light anyway. 

Derek brought a dry change of clothes in one of the bags for each of them, but the only boots they had were the wet ones on their feet, so they took them off to dry out a bit over night. Derek stood up to take his wet shirt off. Stiles had spent his whole life seeing other people change clothes; he was no stranger to seeing people in varying stages of undress. However, he couldn’t pull his eyes away Derek’s back when he pulled off his wet shirt. Stiles watched the material cling and slide over Derek’s impressive back-his broad shoulders, the rippling of his muscles as he used one arm to yank off the shirt. Stiles realized he was biting his lower lip, and he felt warm in his stomach. He was feeling that instinctive pull towards Derek again; he just wanted to touch and explore every inch of his skin. The desire to touch was so strong this time he had to squeeze his hands into fists at his sides.

Derek grabbed the waistband of his trousers and pushed them down to the ground, stepping out of them. He stood there, in nothing but black briefs. His ass was just as impressive as the rest of him: firm and high, with a prominent curve, below the dimples of his lower back. His thigh muscles were thick, and covered with dark hair. Stiles felt himself grow warmer, and he bit his lip harder. There was something about Derek’s body, not just the muscles themselves – which were impressive on their own merit - but the way he moved was so naturally athletic and graceful, it was hypnotizing. Derek was his friend, but Stiles had never wanted to touch a friend, or anyone for that matter, so badly. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, “Can you toss me the other bag, I have something for you.”

“Sure,” Stiles said weakly. He grabbed the other bag, giving himself a moment to catch his breath. Since when was he out of breath? His heart felt elevated, and his palms were sweaty. He took a deep breath, and turned around. Derek had put on his dry clothes, and Stiles suddenly felt like he could breathe again. 

“I grabbed this for you, figured you’d want it,” Derek said, reaching into the bag.

“Your jacket!” Stiles exclaimed. 

“You keep calling it that, but it’s your jacket now,” Derek said, bemused, tossing the jacket over to Stiles.

“Our jacket, whatever,” Stiles said, catching the leather coat with minimal flailing, and immediately putting it on. He sniffed surreptitiously. “It no longer smells like garbage, thank fuck.”

“Thank goodness for little favors,” Derek said with a smirk. 

Stiles pulled the jacket tightly around himself, hugging his body with his arms. He already felt better. A second later he realized he had to change out of his damp clothes. He reluctantly took the jacket off, but kept it close by while he changed, his back to Derek, and then put it back on. Would it be weird if he slept in it? It might not be the most comfortable thing to curl up in, but he couldn’t bear the thought of not wearing it now that he had it cleaned and in his possession again.

They ate a quiet meal of protein bars and water. While they were eating, Stiles, curiosity burning, had to ask, “So big guy, what exactly constitutes werewolf abilities? Other than growling at the moon, of course.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “It’s not just growling at the moon, asshole.”

“I know, I’m actually curious. I know you have super strength, but are all you senses heightened?”

Derek took a bite of the tasteless brown protein bar, and chewed thoughtfully. “Well, our senses of hearing and smell are definitely elevated all the time. Our eyesight only improves when we, well I guess you can call it switching over, or when we are transformed.”

“Do you feel the moon on this planet?” 

“Yes and no. I feel it because it’s so big, I can’t help it. But the only moon that affects me is the one on my home planet.”

“Can you feel it now?” Stiles asked. 

“Yes, it runs in our blood. It’s hard to explain. When it’s full, I can feel it anywhere in the galaxy, but its effects are mild when I’m off planet.”

“But when you are home?”

“Then it’s strong, and I need to rely on my anchor, to stay grounded.”

“What’s your anchor?”

“My family. My pack. They anchor me.” Derek looked off into the trees. 

“Does it make you feel melancholy, thinking about them?”

Derek smiled. “Have you been waiting to drop that word into conversation?”

“No! It just seemed to fit. Besides, I thought of melancholy a couple nights ago.”

“Oh? In regards to what?”

“I was thinking about Scott. And whether or not he dreams.”

“Beep bo,” Scott said, interjecting. “Beep beep bo.”

“Scott says he doesn’t dream, but the thought is nice.” Derek looked at Stiles intensely – his signature stare, where Stiles felt like he was being pinned down and examined. “You think about whether or not Scott has dreams?”

“I think about everything. All the time. That’s part of the problem, my brain never stops.”

“That can be a good thing, Stiles,” Derek said softly. 

They finished their food and sat in silence for a moment, broken by Stiles. 

“Do you want me to take the first watch, so you can get some sleep?” Stiles asked, with a jaw-cracking yawn he tried, and failed, to hide. 

“No, we can both sleep; Scott’s going to keep watch.”

“Beep,” Scott said, which echoed in the quiet woods. He was sitting next to a tree, and in the twilight he looked like a giant mushroom that had sprung up from the moss covered ground. 

“It’s weird, I haven’t noticed a single animal since we got here. Not even a flying creature of any kind. This big of a woods, and next to a water source, you’d think there would be something living scurrying around,” Stiles said.

“I noticed that, too,” Derek said. “This place smells off.” He huffed, frustrated, and tilted his head to the side. “I can’t hear anything besides the wind and the trees. I don’t know if that’s a good sign, or a bad one.” 

Stiles lay down, jacket snugly wrapped around his body. If Derek thought it odd, he didn’t say anything. The woods were not cold, but Stiles was comforted wrapped up in the leather. He subtly sniffed; it still smelled faintly like motor oil and pine and moss. Stiles, who usually had a hard time turning his brain off before bed, passed out right after he curled up in the springy bed of moss next to Scott. Derek was one tree over, also on a bed of moss, between several giant roots that made a natural bed.

 

Stiles dreamed. It wasn't his usual dream of marching with the Order (So much of his life had been spent marching or in formation, it wasn’t even funny). This dream was sharper; he could feel and sense everything, like it was actually happening. He was in the woods they had crash landed next to. He was on all fours, and he looked down at his paws. He was a wolf, reddish brown in color. Stiles was in a clearing, and next to him was a large, jet black wolf, eyes a fierce crimson. Stiles stared at the wolf, and the wolf stared back. Stiles didn’t feel afraid, instead, he felt drawn to the other creature. The black wolf huffed, and let a low howl. At the sound of the howl, Stiles felt an electric thrill run through his body, all the way to the tip of his tail. The wolf ran, and Stiles had no choice but to follow. He chased the black wolf through the forest, over large gnarled roots, around rocks and bushes, and even leaping over a small creek. The moss under his paws was springy and dense, the perfect springboard to crouch and jump off after the black wolf.

Stiles was gaining on the other wolf. The super moon overhead shone light on the woods, and pulsated with a strange silver glow. Stiles leaped through the air and collided with the black wolf. The two tumbled, head over tail, until Stiles was on his back and the wolf was on top of him. 

The wolf looked down at him, eyes still red, and tongue lolling out of his panting mouth. His teeth seemed to glow in the moonlight. Then the wolf licked him.

It was so unexpected that Stiles laughed. And then the wolf wasn’t a wolf at all, but was Derek. And Derek was licking his neck. And he was naked. Stiles looked down and he too was naked, pale skin glowing brighter than the moonlight. Derek licked his chest, and Stiles realized he was panting harder than when he had been running. His tongue licked a nipple, and Stiles let out a whimper. Derek licked his other nipple, and Stiles tried to twist up, but Derek was a heavy weight anchoring him to the ground.

Derek licked the hair below Stiles naval, and Stiles groaned. He could feel his cock filling. He had a sudden wild thought: would Derek lick him down there? He was fully hard now, and he could see the top of Derek’s head, jet black hair moving up and down as he continued to lick his way down Stiles’ stomach. Stiles felt so full, his cock had never been this hard before; he couldn’t remember it being anything more than half-hard his entire life. Derek was quiet, very quiet as he continued to lick, his tongue pushing the hair down flat, breath hot on Stiles’ pebbled skin, then licking again and again, until everything on his lower stomach felt wet and strange. Derek would look up at him for a second while he licked, and every time they made eye contact Stiles felt himself grow more excited.

The anticipation was too much. When Derek finally pushed lower, and licked a long , warm, and very wet stripe up the thickest vein of his cock, all the way up to his head, Stiles shuddered hard, back arching, his entire body pulsing, muscles contracting wildly as he groaned, long and low.

“Fuck, Derek. Fuck,” he gasped, the first words he said since the chase started. 

Stiles suddenly opened his eyes. He felt warm, and slightly out of breath. He shifted in the moss, and felt wetness between thighs. He was confused. He had been dreaming, and running. Oh shit, he remembered. Derek licked him. And then he… Stiles felt himself blush. Derek was his friend, and he had a sex dream about his friend. And how could a dream make him come? He remembered the locker room talk of the Order; how could he come while not having sex, without being even remotely touched?

Stiles carefully got up and headed over to one of their bags, hoping Derek had packed more than one change of underwear. He had, thank goodness, and Stiles quickly pushed his pants down and exchanged his sticky pair of briefs for a clean pair. He had one leg in his pants when he heard a noise.

“Beep,” Scott queried at him. Stiles jumped, forgetting Scott was keeping watch a couple feet from where he slept, and tripped on the leg he was balancing on while trying to pull up his pants.

“Everything’s fine Scott, I’m just getting something out of the bags,” Stiles whispered.

“What’s going on?” Derek asked. Stiles looked over to see the werewolf fully awake, already sitting up, eyes glowing red in the dark. The red eyes reminded Stiles of dream Derek, and he felt even more embarrassed. 

“Nothing, nothing, sorry,” Stiles said, trying not to panic. “I was just getting something out of the bags.”

“Stiles, why are your pants… what are you doing?” Derek asked, his eyebrows rising in bewilderment.

Stiles felt himself turn even redder. He saw Derek lift his head, and his nostrils flared. Derek’s eyebrows rose even higher, and Stiles wanted to throw himself in the lake and sink with the Camaro.

“I was just getting a clean pair of underwear,” Stiles said as fast as possible. Irrationally, if he said the words fast enough, maybe Derek wouldn’t be able to understand him. 

Derek scrubbed a hand down his face. “Stiles, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said, as Stiles hung his head and looked at the mossy ground. “It happens to everyone.”

Stiles raised his head, embarrassment outweighed by his natural curiosity. “It happens to everyone? Well, it’s never happened to me, and I’ve never heard or seen it happening to anyone I know.”

Derek looked at him, eyes no longer red, and his voice was unsure. “It’s never happened to you? Not even when you were younger?”

“I’ve never had a dream like, well, like the one I had, and I’ve never…well, I’ve never, uh,” Stiles was having a hard time saying it. “I’ve never come before.”

“You’ve never, wait, have you ever,” and now it was Derek’s turn to look embarrassed. “You’ve never, uh, touched yourself?”

“Outside of the bathroom and cleaning in the shower? No.” 

Derek stared at him for one long, unfathomable moment. Stiles wondered if there was something wrong with him. But if that was true, then something was wrong with the entire Order. He shared bunks and showers with those guys for years, years – he would have known if anything like that was happening. Then Derek’s face cleared.

“The wristbands,” he said, and now he sounded sad, almost regretful. “Stiles, I’m sorry, remember how the Resistance thought the bands were keeping you submissive? I think they were doing more than that.”

“You mean they were keeping us from having sex dreams?” Stiles wondered.

Derek grimaced. “I think it repressed a lot more than we thought, if you‘ve never touched yourself, or if you’ve never had a wet dream. Was anyone having sex?”

“A wet dream,” Stiles repeated, putting a name to his confusing dream. The database at the Order contained zero information on anything regarding sexuality, or body functions. He hoped Derek had no clue of the details of his dream; then he really would throw himself in the lake if it would embarrass, or disgust Derek, to find out Stiles was having sex dreams about him. Not a good friend move, Stiles thought. 

“No one was having sex. We talked about sex, we knew what it was, but no one seemed to want to have it. Which, at the time, didn’t seem weird, since I had no interest in sex beyond the purely academic.”

“Well, that explains a lot. But listen. Don’t feel – don’t feel embarrassed. Everything you are starting to feel is perfectly natural. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“If I have any questions, can I ask you?” Stiles said. “As a friend I mean, can I ask you questions if I don’t understand something that’s happening to me, or what I'm feeling.”

Derek blinked several times, and then took a deep breath and shook his head. “Yes. Of course. You can always come to me with questions.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, struggling to finally put his second leg in his pants. “Now, I’m going to try to get some more sleep, that moss is -”

“Beeep!” Scott blared, and too late, Stiles realized they were no longer alone in the woods. 

Coming out of the shadows of the clearing, as if they were a part of the woods and had materialized from the trees, was a motley assortment of creatures. No two looked quite the same; some had talons, some had fangs, one had multiple mouths on their outstretched palms, and one had a tongue that slithered and darted out, quicker than a whip. They all wore tattered, tight black clothing, and they all walked slowly forward as if they were stalking prey. Stiles realized he and Derek and Scott were the prey. Derek growled low in his throat, and raced over to Stiles side, fangs and claws and glowing eyes already on display. Scott rolled over to Stiles side, chirping nervously while his head spun, taking in the full circle of strangers.

“Who are you? And what are you doing in our woods?” one of the creatures, dragon-like tail waving behind them like a flag, demanded. 

“Your woods? I don’t see a sign saying these woods are private property,” Stiles said, self-preservation nowhere to be found. Derek growled, and put a warm hand on his shoulder in warning, but Stiles ignored him. 

“These woods belong to us. You don’t belong here.”

“We crash landed on your planet, we aren’t here to stay. We’ll leave as soon as we get a working ship. What, uh, planet is this anyway? And who are you?”

“This planet is called Ouroboros. And we are the chimeras. And you are coming with us,” the creature hissed. 

Stiles looked at Derek. “I think we’re outnumbered,” he whispered.

“You think?” Derek muttered.

“Beeeeeeep,” Scott whined.

Even Stiles understood that beep: we are so screwed.


End file.
